


apposition

by elisela



Series: southpaw [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: Stiles had started stressing over his and Derek’s trip to California as soon as they got back from Wisconsin at Thanksgiving. He had, unsurprisingly, gotten sick nearly as soon as Derek’s fever broke and spent the next four days near delirious in bed. Scott and Allison had kept him company while Derek was at work—not that he remembered much of it—and Stiles would have beenfineif Scott hadn’t opened his big mouth and said “don’t worry, I’m sure Christmas will be better.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: southpaw [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014576
Comments: 7
Kudos: 158
Collections: A Very Sterek Winter 2021





	apposition

**Author's Note:**

> For A Very Sterek Winter Day 2: California Winter
> 
> This is a Southpaw fic that's set pretty shortly after [ahead in the count](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561520) and likely won't make a whole lot of sense without it but if you're just here because of AVSW and don't want to get into that right now, Stiles is a pitcher for the NY Mets and Derek's a teacher and they've been together about a year.

“Too early,” Stiles mutters when Derek rolls on top of him in their hotel bed, right before he feels soft lips drag down his neck; not a kiss, just Derek’s mouth against him, warm breath sending goosebumps up his bare arms. “Okay, I lied,” he says sleepily, pulling his leg free from Derek’s weight and hooking his ankle around Derek’s calf. “This is good. We can sleep again after.”

Derek hums against him, knee sliding in between Stiles’ parted legs. “We have a flight to catch,” he says, and Stiles blinks up at him for a moment before he curses and sticks his hand out to grope for his phone on the bedside table.

He groans, flinging an arm over his eyes as Derek laughs. “You should have reminded me about my disdain for mornings when I said I was booking this flight,” he says, pulling his arm down in order to flick Derek in the ear. 

“I did. You said we only had four days in San Diego and under no circumstance should I allow you to sleep the time away,” Derek says, and a moment later his fingers dig into Stiles’ side and Stiles jerks to the side, trying to toss Derek off him. “Ready to get up now?”

“Just for that, I’m not blowing you in the shower,” Stiles lies, glaring at him. 

Stiles had started stressing over his and Derek’s trip to California as soon as they got back from Wisconsin at Thanksgiving. He had, unsurprisingly, gotten sick nearly as soon as Derek’s fever broke and spent the next four days near delirious in bed. Scott and Allison had kept him company while Derek was at work—not that he remembered much of it—and Stiles would have been _fine_ if Scott hadn’t opened his big mouth and said “don’t worry, I’m sure Christmas will be better.”

He hadn’t even been _thinking_ about their Christmas trip going wrong, but from that moment he couldn’t _stop_. His imagination ran wild, conjuring up every little inconvenience, every disaster that could occur, and it drove him—and Derek, who was too nice to say anything—crazy. It’d set him on edge for the whole trip, constantly worrying that everything he planned wouldn’t work out, that his dad wouldn’t like Derek. It’d all been for nothing, and Stiles was fairly certain that by the sixth day in Beacon Hills, his dad actually preferred spending time with Derek over his own son.

Stiles couldn’t really blame him, not after the fabric softener incident.

So it’d really been for all their benefits when he’d decided that taking Derek down to San Diego was the best use of their last four days in California. He’d booked the tickets right away, made hotel reservations over their last dinner at the diner, made his dad promise to come to New York before he had to head to Spring Training, and had driven out of town as the sun set, directing Derek towards San Francisco—

(—with a detour down one of the old, unused forest service roads outside town, where he’d fulfilled his lifelong fantasy of uncomfortable sex in the back of sedan. It’d been cramped and awkward; he hadn’t even gotten off, but there’d been a moment where he’d ended up in Derek’s lap and they’d laughed so hard over how ridiculous it had been that made the whole thing worth it—)

—and hopefully, towards an actual vacation. Stiles is in the middle of the off-season, but Derek works himself into exhaustion, and he knows that Beacon Hills hadn’t exactly been relaxing for either of them.

The girl at the front desk greets him by name before he’s even halfway across the lobby, and he grins when Derek’s hand finds his. “This is where we stay when we play the Padres,” he says, pulling Derek closer so he can lean back on him obnoxiously, allowing himself to be wrapped in both Derek’s arms. “Hey, Dani, just me and this guy today.”

“Lucky me,” she says, giving Derek a quick once over. “Is this the subject of your late night pool show?”

“We agreed never to mention that again,” Stiles protests. “I promised to stop singing, you promised not to tell Skip and to _never bring it up_.”

“I don’t remember either of those promises,” she says, and adds, “sir,” when the manager comes out of the office behind her, placing a pair of keycards on the counter between them. “If there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, Mr. Stilinski, please don’t hesitate to let us know. Please be advised that the pool area closes at 10:00pm and that all singing is strictly prohibited. Mr. Hale, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same,” Derek says; his voice sounds like laughter, and Stiles feels his cheeks flush. “Stiles.”

He pulls Derek along to the bank of elevators and jabs at the up button until the doors open and they step inside. “So I thought we’d grab lunch at Seaport and walk down the embarcadero,” Stiles says, because there are two ways to distract Derek and he’s just got to hope that overwhelming him with information works until he can get into their room and get him naked. “I’ve seen all those military history books on your e-reader so I figured we could go to the Midway Museum, but there’s a Maritime Museum too and last time I was there they had an exhibit about naval tattoos and that was pretty awesome, did you know that if a sailor has a shellback turtle tattoo, it means they’ve crossed the equator?”

Derek nods along as he rambles, opening the door to their room for them and tossing his backpack onto one of the chairs before pushing his suitcase against the wall. Stiles tries to back him onto the bed, pulling him in to kiss him, but Derek smiles and leans away. “Tell me about the pool,” he says.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “I got a little overenthusiastic with some singing,” he says, shooting for an airy tone and likely missing by a mile. “It might have been past midnight at the time, and we might have broken into the pool after it closed.”

Derek pulls him in and kisses him, coaxing his mouth open as Stiles maneuvers them onto the bed, rolling Derek on top of him and grabbing his hips, dragging one hand under his shirt to press against the small of his back. He loves the pressure of him, the way Derek only props himself up on his forearms but allows most of his weight to pin Stiles down, to cover every inch of him. “What,” Derek says, breaking away to press a trail of kisses down his jaw, “were you singing?”

“Can’t remember,” Stiles says. He slides a hand up into Derek’s hair and tugs, but Derek rolls his head and bites at Stiles’ throat and he groans, shifting his hips up to press into Derek’s. His breath stutters when Derek’s hand slides in between them, palm rubbing up his thigh and over his cock, pressing in until he pulls away completely and sits up, straddling Stiles’ legs. He watches, breathless, as Derek works the button on his jeans open, fingers brushing against his skin as he closes them around the waistband and starts pulling them down along with his boxers, stopping at mid-thigh. He nearly whines Derek’s name, kicking his feet to get more room to move, but Derek just looks up and him and winks before resettling himself down on the bed.

Lips drag up his bare thigh and he feels Derek’s warm hand wrap around his cock, and then he stops. “What were you singing?” he asks again.

“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles groans. He tips his head back and takes a deep breath, trying to decide if he feels more stubborn or acquiescent; he’s been itching for this since he’d gotten a little carried away teasing Derek in the shower this morning and had run out of time for Derek to reciprocate. Derek’s mouth slips over his cock and sinks down while he’s thinking, and he pulls back off when Stiles rolls his hips up. “Fine,” Stiles says, reaching down and getting a hand in Derek’s hair. “Fine, Christ, I was inspired to change the words to Barbara Ann to Derek Hale and I got the whole team kicked out. Happy? Please suck me off now.”

Derek raises his head and looks at him instead. “That’s not even the same number of syllables,” he says, frowning. 

“I didn’t say the rendition was _good_ ,” Stiles says, tugging on his hair. “Come on, Derek, _please_.”

“You’re evil and I hate you,” he pants, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “I’m a fucking pitcher, I don’t need to run! Did Allison put you up to this?”

Derek pulls him upright, lifting his arms over his head and folding them behind his neck. “Hunching doesn’t get you more air,” he says, and he propels Stiles forward with a hand to his lower back. “And yeah, Allison put me up to this.”

“I wish I’d never introduced the two of you,” he says. “God. You’re ruining my vacation.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to the back of Stiles’ sweaty head. “Just wait until you hear tomorrow is the weight room.”

He’ll be happy for it in February, but off-season-Stiles hates working out and always has. “No morning sex for you,” he says, ignoring the startled look from the couple passing them. “I was going to suggest we ride bikes to Silver Strand Beach today but now I’ll be lucky if I can make it across the street from the hotel.”

Derek laughs behind him, and even a year later the sound still sends butterflies spiraling through his stomach. “I guess you’ll be too tired for mini-golf then,” he says, finally letting go of Stiles’ arms and stepping behind him, looping an arm around his shoulder. 

Stiles perks up. “Belmont Park?” he asks. He’d bought a San Diego guidebook at the airport and had forced Derek to look through it on the plane—he didn’t want their whole vacation to be spent doing things he’s already done—and he’d been hoping that Derek would be interested in a beachside amusement park. They’d never gotten the chance to go to Coney Island over the summer and he’d been a little bummed about it for weeks. 

“Thought you could show off your skills at the midway games,” Derek says, “and I didn’t think you’d turn down the chance to eat fried food.”

“You know me so well,” he says, tripping over the curb in front of the hotel when he looks over at Derek.

“Yeah, well, you talk a lot,” Derek says, arm tightening around his waist. “Hard not to by now.”

Jackson’s laughing at him. Stiles can hear him, voice tinny over Derek’s phone speakers, _laughing_. 

“It’s rigged, buddy, everyone knows that,” Scott says, and Stiles spares a moment to glare over his shoulder at where Derek is holding both their phones up behind him.

“Thanks, Scotty,” he says, tossing the ball into his left hand and flipping Jackson—and Derek—off with his right. Stiles had handed over his phone without thinking about it when Derek asked for it as he was paying to play the game and now he’s regretting several of his life decisions. He _knows_ the game is rigged—he can see how the bottles are off-set, knows they’re weighted and certainly can tell that the ball in his hand is not a regulation baseball.

But he’s also not about to face Parrish’s wrath and blow his arm out trying to win a goddamn carnival game for Derek, so he’d just tossed the ball, trying to get a feel for it. He has three chances, for god’s sake, and he knows he only really needs one. 

“Hey, do I have to stand on this line?” he asks the teenager running the booth, gesturing to the white strip of paint at his feet. 

“You can’t get closer than that,” the kid answers, sounding bored.

“Cool, cool,” Stiles says, and grins as he walks backwards. “Hey, Scotty?”

“Yeah dude,” Scott says, “right here.”

“What’s the sign?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jackson says, and Stiles hears Derek sigh.

“Curve,” Scott says.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, and Stiles looks over his shoulder and sends him a cheeky grin.

“What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t win you a carnival prize?” he asks, and pulls into the stretch.

“Keep me awake,” Derek mumbles, warm breath blowing over Stiles’ neck. 

He tilts his head and kisses Derek’s forehead, brings his free hand over to brush against his beard, curling his fingers gently around Derek’s chin. “We should head back,” he says. They’ve been laying on the beach for a few hours and he knows they should start getting ready to leave; it’s a nine mile bike ride back to the hotel and he doesn’t feel like doing it in the dark. Stiles has a difficult time keeping himself from falling over at the best of times and he’s not sure he should tempt fate.

“Five minutes,” Derek says, pulling him in closer with the arm he has looped over Stiles’ waist. His eyes are closed against the setting sun; he looks so at peace that Stiles has a surge of heart wrenching tenderness that sticks in his throat and makes him unable to speak for a moment. 

“We’re going to have a hell of a time getting our kids out of bed, aren’t we?” he asks, stroking his thumb along Derek’s jawline. He can see it, a little girl with Derek’s green eyes, or a boy with his own messy hair, burrowing under the blankets and refusing to get up. Neither of them are morning people; they grumble and complain, dragging themselves along in the morning until the last edges of sleep wear off.

Well—Stiles does. Derek has a little more discipline and a willingness to shock himself awake with a cold shower first thing. Stiles would rather die than subject himself to that.

The corner of Derek’s mouth turns up. “Let the imaginary kids sleep in, Stiles,” he says, moving his hand to wrap around Stiles’ wrist before dipping his chin and pressing a kiss to Stiles’ palm.

“They have school,” Stiles protests. “And so do you.”

Derek huffs out a breath. “We can homeschool them. Class starts at noon. You’re welcome.”

“I _knew_ you’d be the one to spoil them,” Stiles says, and yelps when Derek’s hand slips under his shirt and skims along his ribs. “Alright, big guy. Let’s head back, I’m gonna share one of our time-honored traditions with you tonight—going to Old Spaghetti Factory and eating so much pasta you want to puke.”

Derek wrinkles his nose up and presses his head in, nose digging into Stiles’ neck. “Five more minutes,” he says, and Stiles tips his head back and laughs.

“You know I can tell when it’s just resting Derek face and when you’re grumpy, right?” Stiles asks, fussing with the arm rest between their seats before he figures out how to get it out of the way so that he can lean over and drape himself on his boyfriend. 

Derek doesn’t look amused. Figures.

“This is grumpy,” Stiles says, waving a hand in Derek’s face. His seatbelt restricts him from getting as close as he wants so he unbuckles it, only to be stopped by Derek’s hand on his thigh.

“The fasten seatbelt sign is on,” he says, and Stiles rolls his eyes but redoes the buckle.

“Such a stickler,” he says. “What’s the matter, babe? Why the grumpy face?”

“I have to work tomorrow,” Derek says after a moment. He tilts his head towards Stiles, but his gaze is over his right shoulder, looking out the window of the plane. “Just wish our breaks were the same, it was nice.”

Stiles grabs his hand, twining their fingers together. “I’m sorry,” he says, rubbing his thumb against Derek’s. His schedule sucks, he knows that. He’d spent the entire last season wishing he wasn’t always flying across the country and stumbling into their bed in the middle of the night on the days he was home. He’s pretty sure he only tolerated it because Derek was able to fly out with him during the summer, but even then they didn’t get full days together. 

“Don’t,” Derek says, finally looking at him. “Don’t be sorry, that’s not what I meant. It’d be nice—everyone wishes they were always on vacation—but it’s unrealistic. I didn’t mean for you to apologize, I just—I want you to know that I want that.”

He squeezes Derek’s hand and gets as close as he can, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. “When we’re old,” he says, closing his eyes. They’d gotten up too early, needing a flight that got them back to New York in the afternoon so Derek could get ready for work the next day. “We’ll get a beach house in San Diego and a cabin in Colorado and, I don’t know, a condo in Paris. Or Italy, I like pasta better than whatever crap the French eat. Oh, except for bread, they make—”

“I’ll buy you both if you stop talking and let me sleep,” Derek says. 

“Both? What about the cabin? The beach house?” he asks in mock outrage.

Derek squeezes his hand, and Stiles feels a kiss dropped on his forehead. “Right on Coronado,” he says. “The kids will get sand everywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to [reblog the tumblr post](https://elisela.tumblr.com/post/641293824924221440/apposition-elisela-teen-wolf-tv-archive-of) 😘


End file.
